Mycroft Holmes the (Terrible) Matchmaker
by TapTapAlways
Summary: Mycroft Holmes decides to do something nice for his brothers this year, in the most overbearing way possble. Unfortunately for him, that's not quite as easy as mummy makes it look... (Rating because Sherlock and James swears a bit sometimes...)
1. Chapter 1

_So, this is a little experiment of mine, as I thought it way overdue that I returned to the Sherlock fandom. So, I hope you'll enjoy: Mycroft, the (Terrible) Matchmaker!_

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement; nor make any profit off of this story. This story is not listed as a crossover as I am merely borrowing Ian Fleming's character of Bond, (updating him to modern time) and his works are not an option on this site. I am not in any way actually basing this on the James Bond films._

 _TapTap_

Mycroft Holmes _was_ the British government, everybody around him, or at least around his brother Sherlock, knew that, and yet, who drew it to its logical conclusion?

Mycroft Holmes would tell you that the older the brother in the family Holmes, the more annoying he himself found said individual. His only elder brother, Sherrinford, had joined him in the defence of Britain straight out of University, signing up only a year after Mycroft himself came into the service of the nation. The oldest Holmes brother had then proceeded to commit high treason in a frankly outrageous manner (at least according to his still-loyal younger brother) and was now spending one hundred lifetimes in super max prison. He would have disappeared discreetly, but Mycroft had pulled a favour, for the sake of their mother, Violet. He was a loving son, after all.

The next in line of the brothers' Holmes was Mycroft Holmes himself. The government man rarely thought about himself in any sort of sentimental way, neither loved nor hated his own shadow; there was merely respect and trust in his personal self-image.

The next brother, Sherlock, was annoying, and Mycroft found himself constantly frustrated in his presence. Infuriating as he was, however, Sherlock was his little brother, and Mycroft did love him. And always, whatever it took, he would care for him.

Their youngest brother, Quentin, was Mycroft's favourite. The only brother of his, in fact, he genuinely liked being in the same room with at any given time. Even so, Mycroft truly loved his baby brothers, at the end of the day. Both of them. Even when Sherlock was being unresonable and he had to worry about Quentin.

Mycroft had always assumed they would all stay alone all of their lives, as he was a workaholic, Sherrinford was in prison, Sherlock was impossible and Quentin was far too shy to meet many people at all.

On this day he sat with two files, looking down on them and thinking of his two little brothers. It was January, and he had just gotten word that there had been a fourth serial suicide, meaning that DI Lestrade was even now on the way to the flat at Bakerstreet which Sherlock had rented after some pushing from their mother that he needed a proper living place. He hadn't argued that he couldn't afford it - mother's urgings usually came with the appropriate changes in trust fund payouts without anyone ever needing to ask. Not that any of them really lived off of their trust funds, though Sherlock came closer to it than all the rest of them combined.

This meant, that Sherlock would cheerfully jump into danger within the next hour. He would have to keep an eye on him. No change there. Quentin, on the other hand, had showed distinct signs lately of depression; loneliness, his elder brothers deduced. Well, two of them. Mycroft, the Holmes heir, did not give much for the deductive capacities of Sherrinford. After all, anyone who thought they could manage such a betrayal of their country and get away with it right in front of Mycroft Holmes's watchful eyes had to be more than just a little bit daft.

But he ought to do something for his brothers this year, he had already decided on this. Only Quentin might ever thank him for it, but that mattered less. He did not do things because he wanted thanks, after all. Besides, mother would thank him for his thoughtfulness in looking after his brothers, and that would be more than enough.

With that thought, Mycroft Holmes looked back down onto the files he had before him on his desk. Service records of one James Bond, and one John Watson. The two men had been friends in early training, and then moved on in different directions. John Watson had become an army surgeon, and had only just returned to London after having been shot in the shoulder. James Bond had gone into the navy instead, then special forces, and had recently done a similar transfer due to a back injury.

Neither one of those men could be called an invalid by any stretch of the word, but they were both courageous, loyal and made on all accounts for good friends. Even more important, John Watson was the steady companion his younger brother Sherlock would benefit from having around, and James Bond fit the mark for what his youngest brother found "an attractive man" absolutely to a T. And Mycroft Holmes had a plan.


	2. Chapter 2

_I've had this idea for ages but not posted it because I couldn't quite make it into my type of story. Now though, it has grown into this very nice little thing: all it took was a bit of imagination! And lots of lovely reviews: thank you guys for those!_

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond; though the latter two are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

It had been relatively easy, what with their loyalty to Queen and Country (after all, he _was_ the country) and given their recent boredom, to get the agent and the doctor to accept the charge. To pose as two friends, injured in line of duty in the army and the navy respectively (that was practically true, entirely true even, in John's case), roommates and "casually" meeting the two younger Holmeses, to be their protectors and, with some luck, partners.

Mycroft guessed that he would deceive Sherlock for maximum half a day, in fact probably only between one and three hours, at most. In Quentin's case it might be a few weeks maybe, not much more, but with some luck that might be enough, and the cover would still be suitable for the people around them. Sherlock would like the setup, or he would not, and then react accordingly; and Quentin would, hopefully, end up smittened anyway and happy with just not being alone anymore. This might not have been the most insightful approach to feelings ever taken, but it was a plan made by a Holmes, after all.

That was how John found himself suddenly back at Barts hospital, showing James around and telling him a couple of anecdotes about his time as a trainee doctor which much amused his old friend, while they awaited running into the two men it was now their job to seduce and protect.

They had been warned that their targets would probably see through their covers promptly enough, especially the one John was to approach, but had been advised that this was alright. They had been instructed that they should go along with it anyway, keeping their cover for everyone else who might take notice. That seemed simple enough, especially as both the men they were sent here to bump into had security clearances at levels John had barely even heard of, especially the brother James was meant to get close to, and he was the only one actually hiding anything for longer than five minutes, anyway. Right, then.

James listened to John with amusement, keeping one eye out for the two tall men with curly black hair they were sent here to "bump into". They both exchanged a very quick look as the pair came into view as they entered an old lab, one of them busying himself with a microscope, the other with a set of tiny tools taking something apart. It looked like sort sort of box, but an unusual kind as it was very small and brilliantly coloured.

"Afganistan or Irak?" the slightly taller man had looked up, eyes locked onto John attentively, while the slighty younger looking man kind of hid his face, too shy to step out from behind his brother, because that must be the brothers.

James felt immense relief at the question coming from the man to the left. He must be the detective, then, Sherlock Holmes. John, by all indication, seemed puzzled but intrigued, as they conversed with each other, but he himself felt no appeal at all in the man.

He took a closer look at the younger brother instead, who was still hiding somewhat, and gave him a warm, inviting smile. This seemed to have him quite taken aback, but he did offer a insecure, soft, shy smile to James in return. So this was Quentin Holmes. James watched him pointedly for so long that the man looked down, no doubt embaressed, but that was more or less by design. He was meant to be flirting, after all. But he not only found him facinating, he could almost feel how he grew protective about the man. Well, that could only be seen as an advantage; in the end he _was_ meant to be his protector.

By the time the older brother had left the room, after somehow making John promise to come look at a flat with him (he sure liked throwing curveballs, this one, James thought with some amusement) James had managed to get the youngest brother to accept an invitation for coffee at a nearby café.


	3. Chapter 3

_I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I intend no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

After relocating to the small cafe, James continued to flirt as obviously as he dared, not wanting to spook the younger man, nor scare him away, which seemed like a real possibility. Even being careful, he could see that M's boss (funnily enough a M, too, was that a job requirement, maybe?) had been spot on in the brief when he said that he would appeal to the youngest Holmes. The younger man was slight, clearly shy with unruly, slightly long, curly, black hair, and judging by how his eyes would linger on James, he was thoroughly intrigued. All James had to do was take it gently and not blow it.

He was particularly grateful for some intel he had been prepared with on what the man liked, and moved the conversation into Daleks and Lewis Carroll books, subjects to which the other man responded with honest, very charming, pure delight. James watched the younger man closely during their conversation, trying to get a feeling of what he was like.

Shy, that much was clear from the start, and exceedingly intelligent, not that he had ever expected otherwise. A little oblivious, as well, even naive in a way, though at the same time insightful. Very intruging, on the whole. Quite lonely, too, James guessed. The young Holmes was also very obvious, his attraction to James almost possible to read in the air, what with his frequent furtive glances, as well as his clear interpretation that if James was interested in him at all (which he doubted) it was just for a fling.

James smiled for himself as the younger man went to get them both more tea, as the conversation showed no sign of ending any time soon. He would have to play this one very carefully indeed. Oh yes. _Challenge accepted_.

James came home at twilight, meeting John, who had taken the time to cook dinner, and they talked through things. It turned out to be the only dinner they ate together as roommates, as John moved in with Sherlock Holmes two days later, the detective having since long understood by then that the injured army doctor was sent by his brother, but who seemingly didn't much care as he apparently found John "remarkably not boring".

It didn't seem to bother the detective that John was paid to keep an eye on him, either, though he had very pointedly made it clear that he was not in any way interested in romance, and they quickly put their unusual start behind them and became best friends.

While they were busy running around solving crimes and being generally silly, James kept trying to gently woo the shyest person he had ever ever tried to seduce in his entire life. The man was obviously smittened with him, to ridiculous extents, even, but he never made a move, instead letting James lead. All. The. Time. But if James pushed at all, he made the man extremely fidgety. This was going to be trying for even his well-honed patience.


	4. Chapter 4

_I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the latter two are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

John struggled to catch his breath as they got back in the door at Baker Street. Somehow, his limp and his hand tremor had both disappeared within a week of moving in with Sherlock, but he had to admit that he was a little out of shape still, and keeping up with the mad detective was sometimes a job for someone frankly superhuman, and certainly not someone with a finite supply of patience, either!

That seemed to be something of a family trait though, John reasoned as he made his way up the stairs and into the kitchen. Sherlock could be a menace at times, Mycroft was outright scary when he wanted to be and if James was to be believed, Quentin had a mind of his own as well. John opened up the refrigerator only to find that they had ran out of milk again and that there was a severed hand on the middle shelf. Naturally, John simply closed the door again and went to go back out to Tesco's. Well, he did hate it when nothing happened... No risk of what when Sherlock was around, he thought wryly.

Two hours, one trip to the shop, some cooking and three cups of tea later John sat down on the sofa and reached for his laptop, only to find that Sherlock had messed with it once again. Ignoring that, because he had gotten desensitized to a lot of things that you wouldn't believe that people could even be desensitized to ever since he had moved in with Sherlock, John merely logged into his blog and yawned.

Spending about an hour blogging, John finally put the computer down on the coffee table and focused on the sound of the violin coming from the other side of the room. Sherlock had been raving on about something - he hadn't listened to what - for the last several hours, and as usual when he sensed John becoming irate because of his behaviour, he had taken to playing Jonh's favourite pieces on the violin. Irritating as his new flatmate could be (and was, with a regularity he showed in absolutely nothing else) that was a very relaxing way to end a long day.

They had many more days like that. John started to work at a clinic part-time, and between his work, frequent cases and his new flatmate the days fell into a satisfyingly diverse pattern. Sometimes Sherlock didn't sleep for four days, sometimes he slept to noon. Sometimes John could enter the livingroom at Baker Street with hours apart and find his flatmate literally hadn't moved an insh, and at other times the man straight up disappeared, sometimes for hours on end.

John enjoyed the adrenaline thrill of running across London with his flatmate, relishing the thrill of the chase, but he also found himself enjoying Sherlock's company, sincerely liking the man just for himself, straight from the start.

He honestly didn't know anyone who could be as simply provocative as his new friend, but there were also frequent hints of what he could only enterpret as honest concern shining though, something he would bet that most missed about the consulting detective.

He found himself being increasingly vague in his reports to the elder Holmes - not that he ever told him anything Sherlock would have considered private - with his increasing loyalty to Sherlock. In his mind, it was inevitable. There was only so many times that you could put a blanket over someone's sleeping form on the sofa, giggle with them on crime scenes and scold them for leaving body parts in the fridge before you found yourself either honestly liking them, or moving out as fast as you could. And he was _not_ about to move out.


	5. Chapter 5

_I am sorry about this in advance..._

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

James did not strictly like it, but he had never yet lied to himself, and so he admitted that his days had fallen into a fairly peaceful rutine. He met up with his target, Quentin, every few days, and spent the rest of his time going through physical therapy because of his injury.

True to his usual habits, he stuck to going to the gun range several times a week, and he did what training he was allowed while his injuries healed. That was all familiar territory, as he had been injured several times before. Mostly minor, but someone of his occupation always found themselves waking up in a hospital bed sooner or later. Either that, or not waking up at all.

Luckily, his injury was neither serious, as far as back injuries went (he could still both walk and feel his toes) nor permanent and even though rehabilitation would be slow, he would eventually find himself back out on the field.

He made an effort to make his flat look like a normal flat, hiding everything incriminating away, so that he could invite Quentin over. After a few weeks, the younger man accepted, and even eventually let James into his house, as well. They watched filmes together and spoke about books. Mostly though, they met at different café's or coffee shops, James quickly identifying and suggesting Quentin's favourite ones.

He'd sit and watch the Holmes talk, enjoying the enthusiasm his friend and target displayed at his favourite subjects. He noted that some of that sadness, but far from all, started to slowly melt away.

He let Quentin talk him into trying exciting new tea blends and they would sit for hours and just talk, frequently trying new types of baked goods. James enjoyed the way his companion went starry-eyed at good blueberry muffins and how his nose scrunched up at something he did not like. It was very nice, but James eventually wanted to _get_ somewhere. He had a mission, after all, and he wanted to do his job.

It was their seventeenth-zillion date when James felt like he had finally gained enough trust to make his move. Finally. A whole new _meaning_ of finally.

He decided to break up their pattern a little with dinner at a restaurant, making it feel less like they were students hanging out and more like a proper date. Plenty of intelligent conversation and a coffee at their favourite cafe (they had a favourite cafe. Jesus) later and it felt like the right time.

Gently, James reached out one hand to carefully brush Quentin's hair out of the way, and reaching in slowly, he planned for a very short and sweet kiss, nothing that could possibly... James' carefully laid plan was torn asunder by the younger man pulling back, frowning. "You know, James... I am flattered and everything but... I am not gay".

 _Mycroft Holmes might have overlooked a few crucial things with this plan of his... ahem._

 _TapTap_


	6. Chapter 6

_I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

James stared at him. "You're not gay?" Quentin shaked his head, looking at him as if he might bite or be outraged or something. James merely rolled his eyes. "Oh, figures. Your brother is _terrible_ with everything to do with emotions!" Something in the younger man's eyes cleared in understanding. "Mycroft hired you?" It was barely even a question. "Assigned me, actually. Funny, he doesn't strike me as someone who'd screw up so _royally_ at his homework. Sherlock's not gay, _you_ 're not gay. Damn it, even _I'm_ not gay!"

Quentin smiled tentatively at that. "No?" "Well no, not really. Pretty sure John isn't, _either_. Hang on, though" James looked at the younger man with new focus "your brother was pretty _damned_ specific about what you liked in a man. He picked me out specially because I'd fit. Well, partly because I was convenient and needed reassignment because of an injury, but mostly because he was sure I'd fit your tastes".

Quentin rolled his eyes with the air of someone explaining something obvious for the seventeenth time in a row "I am an artist! I'd kill to get to paint a guy like you. Perfect. Every part of you. Like an honest, real life Adonis. Stunning. That doesn't mean I want to bed you". James' responding look could only be described as "eh, I'd be game for either", but then it was his turn to have his eyes clear with understanding "that explains so much of our awkward 'dates'!"

Quentin smiled shyly "so, Mycroft hired you and John...?" "assigned. Special forces". "Ah. For Sherlock and me... As, companions? Would-be-boyfriends? Minders?" James nodded his agreement at that "yes. I'm ex navy; special forces, John Army, just as you've been told. We both got injured recently. Our assignment was to bump into you at Barts and take care of you, John got Sherlock and I, you. Your brother assumed you'd both work it out but we were to keep the cover story for passers-bys, your artist friends from university and Sherlock's colleagues. John and I knew each other back from basic training. So that fit". Ah" Quentin mulled that over for a few moments, and James let him without comment.

"Anyway" the Holmes finally looked up "Does that mean I do get to paint you?" "Pretty sure it does, assuming it'd make you happy, yes" James answered carelessly. He had no problems with that. "Fancy that" the youngest Holmes' brother commented off-handedly "Mycroft being useful!"

* * *

Sometimes, Sherrinford Holmes seriously doubted his own sanity. One of the more recurring reasons was regret. He had a family, outside these walls: three little brothers, mostly annoying, but his little brothers all the same. A mother, a father... back when he was first locked up, there had been grandparents, too. He had not been able to attend any of their funerals. He had thought his brother Mycroft's ambitions unlikely, not to say ridiculous, but the very fact that he was even alive today proved that they were also beyond successful.

He had heard Sherlock was some sort of detective now, but he wasn't allowed newspapers or any communications with the outside world, except the very brief and far-between visits of Mycroft. He wondered if Quentin was still painting. Had he progressed in his skills? Did he still like to analyse colours? That, might be the deepest regret of them all. Not knowing what you truly cared about before it was all gone.

Mycroft and Sherlock in all their cold, emotion-hating glory, he knew that his youngest brother needed someone. Someone to be there for him, to show that he cared. And he sincerely wished he could have been that for him.


	7. Chapter 7

_It is time... to meet_ Mummy _! Didn't expect that, did you? Well, nor did I... I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

Violet Holmes was a very intelligent woman. More than that, she was a wise one, and she had always taken great care to raise her four boys to be secure, confident (that had backfired with one of them) and kind. The latter of which they were, all four of them, though only the youngest dared to regularly show as much.

Friends of hers had expressed sympathy at her having only gotten boys, but she loved to be a "boys' mother". She had little doubt that she'd have loved any daughter she might have had, of course, but she liked the boundless energy and sheer mischief of little boys the best. She had always encouraged tree-climbing, horsebackriding and games of hide and seek spanning half of the estate when they were younger. She was not fond of games involving guns, but they had at least not wanted any dolls, so she could live with the compromise.

Sherrinford had been quite a quiet boy, intent on whatever cought his fancy, and a typical eldest brother. She would always regret the brief mistake in judgement on his part which brought them to such an end. From what she knew of him now, he seemed to have left ambition behind and instead of bitterness, reverted in many ways to that steadyness she remembered from her boys' childhood.

Mycroft had been much more solemn, and though respectful and responsible, more of a caretaker than a playmate for his younger brothers. This had in many ways suited the young scientist Sherlock, and while they had frequently fought like cats and dogs, they had always had a bond which she knew endured to this very day, much as they fooled everyone else into thinking they didn't. She was their mother. She knew.

Sherrinford had instead ended up playing with and caring for the youngest brother, almost ten years his junior, and Violet could scarcely count the many fond memories she had of him reading for the young boy, playing with the toddler, or carrying the baby around with such great care.

She knew that they all had their faults and had made their mistakes, but they were her four darling boys and she loved them all. None of them deserved a lifetime sentence of separation from each other, and so subtly that even Mycroft would not take notice, she started to nudge him in the direction of letting the her younger son see the eldest again, knowing it would do all of them good. Ever Mycroft, because while he might have forgotten those days of peeking out windows at the estate, just two brothers yet, an unbreakable bond formed, she had not.


	8. Chapter 8

_I know that Bond is synonymous for many with lots of action, but surely a double oh also have to be able to wait for a target, or stalk, thus making them used to waiting, possibly in the same position or in a cramped space, for what I can only imagine must at times be very vast amounts of time. I am basing this entirely on book-canon, not the films, and they do contain more idleness and waiting on Bond's part._

 _Sherrinford has been locked up for at least a decade, probably closer to two, and has had little to no news._

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

Quentin smiled warmly, loving every moment of this. James was a terrific model; undisturbed, confident, and seemed to be able to relax into any position easily. He had stamina, also, never fidgeting or getting impatient. Instead, he patiently held his pose, letting himself be directed or even moved without even commenting most of the time, seemingly not minding the long sittings or being shifted into a pose.

Sometimes, Quentin liked to talk while he worked, and sometimes he craved silence instead. When he did talk, James answered readily, as charming as he had been during their long hours of hanging together, but when Quentin preferred the quiet he picked up on that just as easily, endlessly cooperative. It just seemed nothing ever got to James.

There was, once Quentin got close, something decidecly deadly about the man, and when he first asked to get to paint him with his shirt open, he also discovered that he had muscles to match the impression. For himself, though, he felt safe with the man.

Sometimes what Quentin really hated with getting to know new people, was trying to figure out what their hidden motives were. With James, he had soon found that there were none. Now, when his secret was out, James' full set of intentions were out in the open. He did want to be friends; he admitted readily to feeling protective, and Mycroft had given him a list of tasks, the fullfillment of most at Quentin's own discretion.

And that was it. No hidden agendas, no motives in the dark. No secret desire at something Quentin did not know about or couldn't fulfill. James was simple; James was safe. And while the irony of that, given the man's past (and possibly future) had far from escaped the youngest Holmes, he found he didn't really care. Because he had a friend with him now. Someone with whom he could just be himself. Crazy paintings and all.

* * *

Sherrinford reached out a hand to touch it almost reverently. There was a pile of books in his cell. His own books, even, which he had used to own. He was sure they had all been destroyed, but apparently not. Hesitantly, he reached out to open the note which lay on top of the pile, addressed to him. He already knew that it was from Mycroft. But it wasn't merely a polite line; it was long. He felt a lump in his throat at that. Could it really be... news of home? He never got any news. He didn't even know who in the family was _alive_ or not...

"Sherrinford.

I will never forgive you for being a traitor, nor, I suspect, will any of the rest of the family. Our brothers, of course, are forces of nature who cannot be predicted. Sherlock has started to deduce for a living, and Quentin is painting. Sherlock got into drugs after you got arrested, but we managed to convince him to get clean with the help of a police inspector, Lestrade, and Mummy recently made sure he moved into a better flat.

Quentin, as usual, was easier to manage. He misses you, and has often asked to visit. If you promise not to upset him, I can make that happen as I think he needs you. He lives in Kensington Gardens: grandmother left him her estate, including that property. He has been depressed lately" Sherrinford felt his throat constrict at this "but he has a new friend called James, and that has helped. Before you ask, yes, the man is one of mine. Quentin knows this, but seems content with the arrangement.

I will keep you posted.

Mycroft"

Sherrinford Holmes, a traitor, and a Holmes, sat down on his narrow bed and he wept with relief, and with regret.


	9. Chapter 9

_I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

Mycroft Holmes was not used to feeling a little bit silly. Between his natural character and the traits he had developed though his profession, he was not an especially silly person. He was used to commanding respect, and he looked it. At the moment, sitting behind his desk, he looked as impressive as ever, though he did indeed feel a little bit silly.

Sherlock had, precisely like he had thought, gone his own way. John was with him, though, keeping an eye on him in ways Mycroft could not himself, and so he considered this endeavour a success.

Quentin on the other hand... well, that affair was simply embarrassing. James Bond's to-the-point explanation of facts as he reported, hadn't made it any better. He knew very well what Quentin used to _say_ about the sort of people his eyes fell on, but he had always thought it an excuse!

There was no especial reason why Quentin would want to try and cover up the fact that he might be attracted to men, their family being very progressive, but he was so subtle. That almost overdone discretion along with the fact that Mycroft rarely had seen him with any women had made him assume, and that was humiliating. With the loss, many years ago, of their great-grandfather, Mycroft was supposed to be the best deducer in the family! He was not used to be taken aback or surprised, and in a matter such as this, to be so unknowing was simply unforgivable in his eyes. He'd have to take much more care with what he observed around his youngest brother in the future, as any repeat of this blunder was out of the question.

On the other hand, the agent - James Bond - seemed to have things well settled anyway - one might even say that things had worked out to the best - but that was _not_ how Mycroft Holmes worked, nor how he had gotten to where he was. _Other people_ had luck. He didn't _do_ luck, he won the games he played because he was the _best_ at what he did. No matter how much he bristled at these recent events though, they could not be undone now, and what really mattered was that Quentin was safe and everything had fallen into place neatly. Mycroft still had to remind himself about that more than once though, which was so unusual for him that it was almost unprecedented.

That left Sherrinford. He had given him some extra attention recently, and had come to the conclusion that while his older brother could plainly never be trusted again, he had given up the loyalties (or lack of loyalties) which had landed him - landed them all - in this position. Quentin missed him, so there was that, too. Mycroft could, vaguely, understand why. They were three very different big-brothers, Sherrinford, Sherlock and himself, and to their gentle youngest brother, the patient, kind Sherrinford who had always taken time for him must have left quite a gap.

Another reason why Mycroft was so good at what he did, was that he knew his limits. He knew what he _couldn't_ do, and he couldn't be what Sherrinford had been to their youngest brother. Quentin was no longer a child, easily fooled or manipulated, which had been enough reason to keep them apart the first years, but he still needed his brothers. All of them. And that left only one decision that Mycroft could make.


	10. Chapter 10

_Is it alright with everyone if I keep updating this twice dayly all week? I am going to assume that it is. I am enjoying this story far too much... I hope you are, too!_

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement_.

 _TapTap_

Quentin's house was gorgeous. Inherited from his grandmother, along with enough money to live off of interests, it was large and spacious and elegantly furnished with just enough oldfashion sense to make him like it without even changing the drapes.

His studio was at the back of the house, containing an amazing set of windows providing stunning light during the day. He had painted those very windows and their dazzling view of a perfect garden with large trees and a pond more times than he could count. This time, however, he was busy painting the room itself, including the outline of an antique sofa which was beautiful for even his grandmother's taste and which he liked to use in paintings, very much.

He was leaving a lot of empty space there, ready to accomodate James when he came by. James had been training recruits lately, as his back had started to get better, and had promised to pick up some food and come by when he got the chance. Before it got to that time of day though, the doorbell rang, and not with the typical determined sound only James could seem to accomplish.

It was funny that, Quentin pondered as he wiped his hands and went to open the door, how people rang doorbells. Mycroft made even that sound seem distinct and succinct, but determined. Sherlock could make any doorbell sound obnoxious. John and their mother, somehow, interestingly rang doorbells with the exact same sound, and Sherrinford had always managed to make the sound seem impatient. Maybe he was just generally impatient. Maybe that's why he had done what he had.

But he pushed that thought away. How much he missed his dear oldest brother, now remembered only as a distant memory of gentle games back when he was very young, was not an appropriate line of thought.

Getting to the door and opening it, Quentin smiled to see a couple of his artist friends, dropping by to see that painting they had talked about on the phone earlier that day, no doubt. "Come in" he grinned "it's in the studio". "As were you, I see!" he got several grins in reply. "What're you working on?" They walked through the house together, discussing the paint Quentin was using, until they reached the studio and he pulled out the old canvas his grandmother had owned. "Whoa. That is some special colour choises! Your grandmother owned the best stuff!"

As they were discussing it, one of his friends were going over his own frames, gently shifting through the canvases and looking at them appreciatively. It did not take long before he came across one of James. "Ey, Quentin? Is this one of yours?" They all turned to look at that instead. "Yes, from last week. I think it turned out nicely!" One of his friends blinked. "That's quite a nice model you've got there". "Yeah, who's that?" "That's James. He's just a friend of mine. I've got many more of him".

One of them rolled their eyes. "Quentin...! Guys like that...!" "He's just trying to get with you!" Quentin couldn't help but snort at that. "No. He's straight. He's just worried about me that I've been so... sad lately... He is a friend". One of them sighed. "And if that's not true?" "It is" Quentin assured them. "He'll be around soon for a sitting, as soon as he gets off of work. Then you can grill him yourselves". He got a few spread snorts and chuckles at that "you always tell us not to interrogate your girlfriends! What's happened?" "The part where he's not a girl. Also, James can handle himself. If you're trying to intimidate him or scare him away... good luck".


	11. Chapter 11

_I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the latter two are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

Sherlock stepped in the door to 221 B Baker Street with his usual flair, though he hardly felt like it. He had gone on a 64 hour chase after a kidnapper who had snatched eight children at four separate locations throughout London. In the end they had found only seven of them alive, one five year old being lost to a broken neck (interrogations as to what had happened was still ongoing) and Sherlock felt a hundred years old.

He didn't eat or sleep during cases, and now all he wanted was to eat a big bowl of comfort food and crawl up in his big comfy bed for at least 24 hours. That wasn't likely, though. He was far too weary too cook (he _could_ cook, he just chose not to) and Mrs. Hudson was out - gone to gossip at Mrs. Turner's place, no doubt - so he would just have to...

The smell stopped him dead in his tracks as he entered the flat he shared with John Watson. The doctor had been to the surgery all morning - with his tremor gone, he now occasionally stepped in for emergencies - and thus had not joined him on the chase, but now he had obviously returned, sitting in his chair with a bowl of something which smelled wonderful and checking his phone messages (from Mycroft, no doubt).

As Sherlock entered, John looked up and smiled. A genuine, welcoming smile, not that of someone who humours someone else because it's their job. "Hello. There's food on the stove, grab a bowl. I heard about the case. You should sleep, you must be tired".

If someone had told him six months before, hell, if someone had told him that _morning_ , that _Sherlock Holmes_ would find himself feeling welcomed and at home, be grateful to be pampered (and not even by Mrs. Hudson) Sherlock would have deduced they'd had too much to drink. But the fact was, that for the first time in a long time, Sherlock suddenly found himself feeling genuinely welcome; at peace, even. Life truly was strange.


	12. Chapter 12

_I love trying to visualize the faces of the painter friends in this chapter..._

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

Quentin went through a few more of his recent paintings with his friends, wanting their imput on his techniques, when suddenly that decisive ring of the doorbell came. "That'd be James" Quentin put the painting he held - James sitting by his piano, eyes fixed on the notes - down and went to open the door. It didn't surprise him that all but one of his friends came along.

James, of course, was leaning against the wall holding a generously sized bag of takeaway. No doubt, Mycroft had been spying again. "Hello" James smiled as Q let him in, gracefully pushing off of the wall and entering, moving like a giant cat as usual, then took in his friends' faces without much worry. "I thought you'd be hungry, but now I see it was lucky for other reasons that I brought a lot". He headed in the direction of the kitchen with the obvious manner of someone feeling well at home with wherever they were, and who knew their environment well.

"Yeah. Would it bother you if we had some audience for painting today? We do that sometimes" James just shrugged and shook his head, untroubled with most anything Quentin could throw at him as usual.

They ate in the kitchen, joined by Sam, who had been the only one not nosy enough to come join him at the door, there being plenty for everyone, and the interview of James seemingly on hold until Quentin would be more preoccupied, so the conversation was mostly focused on the process of preparing occra paint.

As they all finished, Quentin turned to James with what felt like an unusually awkward request with others in the room. "James? There's a change of clothes in the upstairs bathroom. Would you please leave the shirt half undone?" James only smiled ever so slightly, the expression more visible in his eyes than anywhere else. "I'll just leave it, as you'll change the buttons anyway!"

Quentin rolled his eyes at his friends' expressions as James left the room. "Really, Quentin? You dress the man?" "Yeah, well, he doesn't mind!" "Probably because he wants you to _remove_ his clothing!" "James isn't trying to get with me!" "Yeah, sure" he didn't even have to look to know that they rolled their eyes. Instead, he just walked back into the studio, knowing they'd follow.

As they walked into the studio, James was already there, dressed as asked, but with his shirt open, letting Quentin walk over and button it himself to his taste. The painter felt his friends' eyes on him as he did so, but James seemed completely unbothered, unrufflable as ever. "So" George suddenly asked "any women in your life, James?" "Not currently" James voice was smooth and casual, letting Quentin arrange him on the sofa, casually moving his limbs as the younger man's hands nudged him to.

"Not interested?" This time, it was Charlie. "I am, it's just not the best of times... Ow" James suddenly shifted. "That's no good, Quentin, that hurts like hell". All eyes suddenly fixed upon James with new purpose. "Sorry. How about you lie on your back, and drape one arm down?" "The one facing the canvas? Alright" James settled into the new position, letting the younger man do some final adjustements.

"You look properly shagged out like that" the Holmes stated, making his friend smile and his older friends look slightly puzzled. "Well, if that's what you're going for. Do you want my eyes open or closed?" "Doesn't matter right now. I'll settle on all that when I do your face. I'll tell you".

"So, is that a barstool-secretly-moving-on-you accident or something paining you?" It was George again. "It looks like a knife wound" Sam's sensible voice cut in. "That's old. The side's a knife, the shoulder was a bullet" James replied sedately. "I had a fall a time back. And that's why I'm not dating right now, since you wanted to know. I'm still recovering, and I like my relationships rather... explosive. It suits me well to keep an eye on Quentin until then".

"Nice and sedate pace with me, huh?" Quentinn chuckled, spreading more paint on his palette. "Until you're up for somthing more exciting". "Well, I'll be back the next time I need a few weeks break" James joked. "It's interesting. I bore easily".


	13. Chapter 13

_I might have gone a bit overboard with this one... much descriptions, everybody!_

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

Sherrinford was used to being moved out of his cell every few months to a year, just for a few days as they rechecked the security, but it had looked the same ever since he got there. A three meters wide, five meters long room, one of the longer walls, the front one, made entirely of bars facing the outside hall, with two steel doors at the back, leading to two rooms about two times two meters, one a modestly equipped bathroom and the other an isolation room.

This time, instead of being held in another, smaller cell for the usual day or two, he had found himself being sedated and moved, waking up again in an entirely different cell, though the proportions were similar.

The wide wall of bars here had walls of about a meter at each side, affording him slightly more privacy, and the grey walls he had been forced to become accustomed to was instead covered with book-cases, some containing books of his, some with a generous selection of new, mostly unread, titles.

As he got up, he ran his left hand across some, identifying the pile he had been given before easily. He had worried about those when moved away from his cell, but had trusted his brother to keep track of things. As usual, he had come through more than anyone expected him to.

The narrow bed was replaced by a comfortable-looking sofa, placed by one of the shorter walls, not in direct view from the hallway outside, but no bed. Besides the bookcases, the walls were painted in a warm yellow, just the nuance he had always liked.

An inspection told him that what he was used to being an isolation room, at this place had a nice wooden door and led into a bedroom with a very nice, very big bed, covered in a quilt like the ones they had for outdoor use when they were kids.

The same sort of changes were made seen in his bathroom, a soft blue colour scheme instead of grey, this room also containing new comforts, even including a bath!

As he returned out to the larger room, he noticed for the first time that over a small sideboard, and a desk at the opposite side, there were two paintings, highlighted with little spots. Stepping up to the smaller one first, he examined the pretty tree on it, startling when he recognised his brother Sherlock as one of the children playing there. His heart beat faster as he looked for the signature; and there it was: "Quentin Holmes". For the first time, he felt himself really grateful to his eldest baby brother.

The other, larger painting was charming, but seemingly painted by a much younger Quentin Holmes. He found himself both warm inside and somewhat horrified at the implications at the same time as he saw it was dated years ago, and signed " _Quentin Holmes, for my brother Sherrinford Holmes_ ". He was grateful that even if Mycroft had told him nothing of the gift, he had at least kept it for him. Like he had, it seemed, many things Sherrinford had mourned the loss of.

The larger painting was set on the wall above the desk, and, of course, the desk held a note, just like he knew it would, in a tidy white envelope of an expenside stock.

"Sherrinford

Do not believe I have forgiven you. You deserve no such thing. I have promised our little brother" there was no doubt of which one he meant "that he might visit you at will. It is not as if you are ever busy." Humour. From Mycroft. Dry as it was, that was unusual.

"For this purpose, you have been moved to a secure facility at the closest possible distance to London. As you cannot be allowed to leave it, he will be coming to you when he desires to see you, and I do not want to upset him with the surroundings". He had already figured out as much himself, but Mycroft's anger still had to be softening from its longtime position if he even allowed one of his precious little brothers in the presence of the traitorous one. Sherrinford did not care for his motives either way. The important thing was that he would get to meet Quentin again.

There was only one last line remaining in the short letter. "I am sure you appreciate that if you hurt him in any way at all, I will have you killed in the most excruciatingly painful manner I and Sherlock combined can device. I have so far considered fire ants, but found it far too mild.

Mycroft".


	14. Chapter 14

_I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter ones are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement._

 _TapTap_

Sherlock walked around him, almost as if he was a painting, too, to be observed. John would normally try and rein him in at this point, but he knew that James could take it. The man in question was sitting at the edge of the pond in Quentin's garden, looking romantically thoughtful, his fingetips just grazing the water, and the youngest Holmes was busy by his easel.

"Sherlock, get out of my picture, please" Quentin rolled his eyes "and Mycroft gave you your own, so leave me my model in peace". "John deserted from the Mycroft-programme" Sherlock told him, settling down outside of his brother's carefully laid scene. Quentin was not even a fraction as annoying as Mycroft, so he made a point of trying to be nice to him. Sometimes just to annoy Mycroft, but mostly because he could be a protective big brother too. (And better than Mycroft did it, at that) Besides, he _liked_ his baby brother.

"I don't know why he insisted to do that - we could have split the fee!" John rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to correct his friend and flatmate's moral principles. "Seems to overdo it" James stated casually, never even looking away from the surface of the pond, keeping his pose perfectly. "I am perfectly capable of being entirely on Quentin's side and still look out for his wellbeing at the same time".

"I am sure you can, but that is not the point" John argued "besides, it is different - you do not live with yours, nor are those two brothers at each other's throats!" "That's true. I do not mind like Sherlock, nor are we quite as close as the detective and his blogger" Quentin agreed, tilting his head to judge if he'd gotten the sunbeams lighting James' hair right.

Sherlock merely replied with a childish sulk, causing John to shake his head fondly, Quentin to smile knowingly, and James, James did not move an insh. His skills might have been honed to keep watch on dangerous criminals for days until they finaly made a move to give themselves away, but they did mean he was a very good artist's model, too!


	15. Chapter 15

_It is_ The Meeting _. Gulp._

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, and I mean no copyright infringement with this story._

 _TapTap_

Sherrinford sat on his sofa; reading. It was quieter here than his last "home" for so many years had been. There were another few inmates, but not in immediate proximity, just like the last place, and none of these tended to take to shouting. He enjoyed the peace, as much as he enjoyed the comforts of his new home. He supposed that, in effect, he had his youngest brother to thank for them.

He had thought much the last few days since being moved here, about Quentin and whether he would actually chose to come visit. It still came as a surprise when he heard steps, he looked up from his book just as they stopped outside the bars, and he saw his little brother there.

Quentin had obviously changed a lot. He had been a child, barely on his way into puberty, the last time Sherrinford saw him, but though he recognised him right away, the darkhaired, nervous-looking youngest Holmes standing outside his cell was a rather handsome, adult man. He wore his black hair rather long, and he wasn't alone. Hanging back, clearly keeping an eye on him but not interfering with the meeting, was a blond Adonis whose appearance screamed out to Sherrinford in every way that he was an agent. Quentin left his side to come closer, but he seemed at peace with him, so that was probably James, then.

"Hi... eh, I'm..." Quentin quite obviously struggled. Sherrinford put his book down and rose, smiling. "Hello, Quentin. I know it's a cliche, but you've grown since last I saw you". He watched his darling little brother relax at his obvious acceptance. Had he expected differently?

Their little moment was interruped by a guard unlocking the door and letting Quentin in. His blond shadow joined them. Quentin frowned at that. "Surely Mycroft doesn't think he'll... I mean..." Sherrinford was grateful for James' reassuring answer. "I doubt he'd let you in here, if that was the case. I'm just a precaution. Don't worry. I won't be in your way".

They spent the next five hours just talking. Mostly about family, what Quentin had been up to, his art and their brothers. James lay on Sherrinford's bed all the while, stretched out lethargically and reading a paperback, as he hadn't been allowed to bring his cellphone.

"I was sure Mycroft hadn't given you that painting" Quentin remarked, looking at the large canvas over the desk. "He didn't, originally. I think he has finally decided me harmless enough to indulge me a little" Sherrinford smiled. It was just as easy to talk to and just be around Quentin as he remembered, though the conversation was obviously very different now on account of him being all grown up.

"I saw the blanket on your bed. Grandmother used to have those set aside for picnics, didn't she? We took them out on the grass at the country estate". The eldest brother laughed "I am surprised you remember that! Yes, yes we did. I used to read to you for hours. Mycroft preferred to study on his own and Sherlock was always running away somewhere to new discoveries, but you were content to stay and listen. You were so much easier to babysit!"

"I was lucky to have you to read to me" Quentin reflected, and Sherringford felt profound guilt at his little brother's sudden sadness. "Mycroft cares, but he can be so cold; and Sherlock is so unpredictable. You always played with me, though I guess it must have been boring for you". "No, it never was. I was always glad to" the older brother assured him. "Always".


	16. Chapter 16

_Cute Quentin and James are being cute... Mycroft is overbearing, Sherrinford isn't going anywhere and who knows where Sherlock has gone off to anyway. Business as usual, in other words!_

 _I do not own the series "Sherlock", or any of the many books involved, and I mean no copyright infringement with this story._

 _TapTap_

Quentin woke up feeling happy. It was strangely foreign. He had been growing melancoly for so many months, making even Sherlock (and Quentin's youngest big brother was probably the least inclined to fuss person in the entire would) worry about his wellbeing, not to mention mummy.

He had his paintings and his friends, of course, but he missed something... a lot of things, especially after their second grandfather had died two years back. James presence had helped... there just was something about the man which made Quentin feel safe... safe and cherished. Just like Sherrinford. And now, and he thought back on the realisation with a happy smile, he could go visit Sherrinford any time he wanted. He felt... safe. And he was happy.

He had realised on the way home from visiting his oldest brother, watched over in the car by James, just how much the two of them; his big brother and his new friend, reminded him of each other. Perhaps that was why he had so quickly become so comfortable with James. Bond had always made him feel... content. They were both protective in a comfortable, gentle, indulgent sort of big-brotherly kind of way, different from Mycrofts well-meaning overbearingness or Sherlock's rough-edged affection.

Armed with this new feeling, and the new insight Quentin headed downstairs to his kitchen, not expecting to find James there making a full english breakfast, but certainly not minding. As ever, James was honest and straight with him. "I was ordered over. Your brother was worried your visit with Sherrinford upset you, so he sent me to make sure you'd be alright. You seem fine to me though".

"I am fine" Quentin assured, sitting down with a smile at the breakfast bar and watching the older man finish cooking their breakfast. "Happier than for a long time. I feel at peace, somehow. And Sherrinford is a big part of that. You, too".

James nodded slowly, as ever a man of few words, and devided the food onto two plates. "Any plans for the day?" the agent asked after sitting down. "Not really. I thought I'd read some. Why? Any ideas?" "Not really. I might take a nap". Quentin snorted at those ambitious plans. "Knock yourself out. Not literally, though. I like these carpets and I don't want your blood on them". Merely chuckling, James confirmed "noted".


	17. Chapter 17

_This is the last chapter! An entire story in ten days, because waiting is painful! As far as Sherrinford and bringing things or visiting in a secure facility goes, I am just going to assume that if Mycroft Holmes says they can, they can. Besides, modern prisons cannot be broken out of with a saw hidden in a loaf of bread, like in the old days! I presume there is security to pass through and they X-ray anything they bring in, anyway._

 _I still do not own the series "Sherlock", or any of the many books involved, and I mean no copyright infringement either._

 _TapTap_

It was just before noon, Christmas eve, and Quentin sat with his sketchpad in the sofa, watching and drawing what he saw around him. John and James sat together - well, John sat, James was lounging as ever - and talked casually about handguns. (Which was a simply strange thing to just chat about, in Quentin's opinion, but theirs was rarely the strangest conversation in any room which held the Holmeses.)

Mycroft was sat on a highbacked chair and read the newspaper, and Sherlock and Sherrinford had spread out on the carpet, playing jenga with an amazing amount of concentration. They were in Sherrinford's cell, having decided to visit him first and all go together in one of Mycroft's cars to the family gathering later in the evening.

The cell looked somewhat different from when Quentin had first come there in the late spring. While it had been somewhat homely, with the warm yellow walls and a few nice touches such as the coverlet bringing the thoughts back to their childhood, not to mention all of the books, it had still been bare in many ways. That was not the case now.

Quentin made a point to bring his brother a new book at least every few visits, as well as sketches of things and places, as his brother seemed to enjoy them, and ever since Sherlock had started visiting in the summer, he had brought by a microscope, now placed on the desk, as well as other slightly strange things (such as a giant stuffed panda, currently placed on the couch) and they had brought games regularly until there was now a stack in one of the bookcases.

Sherlock and Sherrinford has started to gang up on Mycroft as well, Sherlock often spending long amounts of time in the company of their eldest brother and the two almost always agreeing, especially if Mycroft did not. The oldest Holmes seemed intrigued with his little brother's experiments and the two of them were thick as thieves.

Sometimes Quentin felt more keenly than the rest of the time how lucky he was to be the only brother all of them liked. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest. Or possibly it was simply because the rest of them were all insufferable. Likely it was some sort of combination of the two.

John was another that most, if not all, of them liked. James, too, had won the approval of all but Mycroft, somewhat ironically, who was lightly suspicious of the questionable way James sometimes followed his orders (Quentin was certain he was secretly pleased James took his side, but Mycroft would never admit such a thing out loud) and possibly Sherlock, who for someone so obvious in his displeasure at the same time could be very hard to read. That had to count as an artform.

"We should think about leaving" Mycroft finally noted, only to get a disdainful huff from Sherlock, the two men on the floor now having moved on to playing Settlers of Catan. "No". John rolled his eyes at that, but Sherrinford smiled. Quentin briefly considered taking a side, but was spared the decision by James, who cut in. "Unlikely". Somewhat grudgingly, John agreed with him, ever the voice of reason.

"He's right. It isn't that long a drive, and everyone is done. Besides, no one seems eager to spend more time there than necessary this evening". He didn't elaborate on the whole "Sherlock won't behave for that long in a social setting anyway" concept, but Quentin agreed they may as well stay here far longer. Besides, Sherrinford couldn't come, and this was far nicer than the stilted once-a-decade family gathering which replaced the cozy immediate-family-only affair Mummy Holmes normally insisted on this year. The only one stilted here was Mycroft, and everyone ignored him.

Sherlock gave a victorious grin in Mycroft's direction, and Sherrinford chuckled. "That's settled then. Little brother" the last part was addressed to Mycroft, making both the younger Holmes smile in victory. Mycroft could never play the "older and responsible so I make the plans" card with Sherrinford for long.

"Is it snowing outside this year?" Not allowed to set foot outside for eighteen years, Sherrinford was facinated by unusual things sometimes. Mycroft nodded, actually getting along better with Sherrinford than anyone had expected, if somewhat stiffly.

"It does" "I remember playing in the snow, back home, when you two where little more than toddlers" Sherrinfold told his youngest brothers. "Don't you My?" The second oldest Holmes nodded again, more relaxed now. "I do".

"John and James murdered Sherlock in a snowball fight last night in my garden" Quentin told his oldest brother fondly, making him laugh, John and James snicker and Sherlock glare. Life had changed a lot lately, he reflected, but he was so happy that it had.

 _I personally very much enjoy the idea of Sherlock being really random with what he takes with him to his brother, and that no one but Sherrinford even remotely understands what the gifts are for._

 _Mummy Holmes lets her boys bond, but rest assured she will visit very soon, and come often._

 _TapTap_


End file.
